


Parasitic

by soulcinders



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cannibalism, Creepy, Disturbing Themes, Incest, Murder, Necrophilia, Other, POV Second Person, Pedophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22590100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulcinders/pseuds/soulcinders
Summary: In a world where nothing truly matters, one must remain alone to survive. You need only yourself, and you shall find this truth along the way. From young to old, you discover the secrets of the universe, the secrets of yourself, and the secrets of those you once believed to be your friends. Lies upon lies upon lies make up this sickening world of ours, and you must be ready to face each one with a counterfeit smile plastered on your revolting face.[Disturbing themes- trigger warning. Caution is advised.]
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Parasitic

In a world where nothing truly matters, one must remain alone to survive. You need only yourself, and you shall find this truth along the way. From young to old, you discover the secrets of the universe, the secrets of yourself, and the secrets of those you once believed to be your friends. Lies upon lies upon lies make up this sickening world of ours, and you must be ready to face each one with a counterfeit smile plastered on your revolting face.

Dependence on others leads to untimely deaths. You grow away from yourself, sacrificing your freedom to follow others as though you were a parasite. Sucking the life source from others until they are left dry, then hopping through each victim with desperation. And yet, the parasites seek to please. To earn praise from those they are dependent on. To be good.

You had never seen the light of day. Your father kept you locked away and your mother, terrified of him, did not object. She was allowed outside only to retrieve groceries and medicine. No men were allowed to spot her looking at them and she was to stray away from those who grew suspicious of her. Your mother no longer had friends, for your father forced her to drop all of them once she became pregnant with you. Not that she had many in the first place.

You were an unwanted child, having been the outcome of drunken rage taken out on your mother. Every night, you heard her sobbing, wishing she could be free. She loved you, and yet she hated that you existed. A child brought to life from horrible decisions done in her past. Why had she stayed with him all that time? She wasn’t allowed to leave. She knew what he would do to her. 

Now, you never truly realized what had been happening. You were always focused on being good, receiving praise for helping around the house or tending to things on your own. You took care of yourself as to not bother your parents. Especially not your father. You didn’t want him to think of you as a bad child, did you? You didn’t want the punishment that ensued.

All your life, you had been mute. As soon as you had uttered your first word and stopped crying at everything, you were ordered to remain silent. And you did. What would you speak of, anyway? You had no education, no friends, and your mother had lost her voice long before you were born. All she could make now were sounds, garbled and quiet, ghosts of what once was a beautiful voice.

One night, she went into the bedroom and never came back out. You ventured there the next day, a tray of food balanced on your scrawny arms. Your mother was splayed out on the bed, her eyes closed as though she was sleeping. Her wrists were coated in blood, and three bottles of Ibuprofen lay around her, empty.

Your young mind couldn’t comprehend what had happened, but you knew something was wrong. Despite the usual rule to not bother your father, you decided to be bad for just once. Your teeth tore at your dried lips as you tapped on his arm, looking up at him. He was much taller than you. At first, he shoved you off, which lead to a punch to your cheek and a slew of curses as you persisted, but he finally let you grip his hand and lead him to the bedroom. A tear fell down your cheek from the pain of the attack on your face and the idea of losing your mother. She was happier now, though. You knew she held a smile on her face as she rested. 

Your father sent you away to your room, a plain closet with a bed made from filthy towels, coated in mold. But it was perfect for you, this is all you’ve lived with. It was what you deserved, your father always said. He was the only one allowed to speak within your household.

Your mother was gone the next morning, leaving you and your father alone.

*

His drunken rage never ended. It grew worse with the years after your mother’s death, which you had never been able to pinpoint the reason for. You were older now, able to fend for yourself and run the house on your own when your father was away. He was always gone, leaving you to keep yourself alive. 

Then, it began. He came home one night, coated in the scent of beer and stumbling through the halls. Your door was flung open and he threw himself onto you, gripping your arm and pinning you to the ground. His hands explored your body and you flailed around, unsure of what was happening. What was he doing to you? 

His rough hands tore your clothing open and you cried. He touched you in the places you had never touched yourself, forcing himself into you and taking your innocence. You could make no sound as he destroyed your body. His nails dug into your scalp as he held your head down, his other hand holding your wrists. It burned, blood dripping from where he repeatedly forced his way into you. You could not scream.

You soon passed out and woke up hours later covered in bruises, bodily fluids, and blood. Your clothes were strewn about the floor, and you silently cried. Your body ached. You felt violated. Why had he done that to you?

Wiping away your tears, you climbed into your bed and laid there until morning.

Once it arrived, you stood, shaking on your feet, and stumbled toward your clothes bin. Your other outfit had been soiled, so you took another that you had been given from your mother and put it on. It ached to move. The too-small pants constricted your legs, feeling as though they were ropes tying you down. You took a breath and frowned. You had work to do, to be a good child. You didn’t want to be punished by your father.

You stopped. Was the night before a punishment? Your head shook. No. You had done nothing wrong to deserve a punishment! Was it a reward for being good? Then why did it hurt so much? Was that the way your father gave rewards? 

A grin spread across your face. You were such a good child, that he had rewarded you by using your body, of course! Bouncing on your toes, though flinching as pain shot through your legs, you bounded out of your room and went to clean the kitchen. Your body ached and you stumbled over your legs many times. 

If it was a reward, you wanted it more. You wanted to be a good child.

*

The next night, it happened again. He came into your room and took your body for his pleasure, but you didn’t cry. It hurt. But you loved it. You wanted the praise he spoke of, to be called his good child. You were a useless toy, as he said. His useless toy.

It wasn’t long before you grew to like his touches. The pain he caused you felt good. Every night, you wished he would burst into your room and take you, calling you horrible names. But you knew it made him feel good to use your body, and you wanted that. You wanted your father to feel good, to think of you as good. His hands brought bruises and cuts to your flesh. Soon, he began to hold knives to your throat, threatening you to stay still and be good. More cuts joined the others, and your floor was left stained with your blood.

One day, it stopped. Your father began to bring strange women home, touching them instead of you. A certain woman came frequently and stayed longer and longer each time. It made you jealous, thinking of your father’s hands on her. Her noises were loud, keeping you up as they pleasured each other each night. She did not know you existed, as your father did not speak of or to you whenever she was around. Even when she wasn’t around, you were invisible to him. You would remain in your room when she was over. 

Your jealousy grew worse as the days continued. The whore had no right to be touching your father like that, making him fall in love with her and her body. The wretched beast of a woman had to leave, and never return! He had to touch you again. He had to use your body again. You wanted it, you needed it. You needed to be his good child. Your own hands could not make you feel the same as his did. 

As you curled yourself into a ball on your bed, listening to their foul noises as they ravaged each other in your father’s room, you caught sight of a blade he had left on your floor. You crawled to it, looking over the sharp, metallic blade. A hint of blood glinted on the surface, which was reflected in the dim light of your room. You thought of all the times your father had threatened to drive the blade into your throat. You knew what you needed to do.

She had to choke on it. Her throat would be slit open and you would watch the blood flow from it. Your lips twitched into a smile. You walked out of your room and stood outside the door of your father’s room. Their noises were reduced to quiet snores as you waited, the knife gripped in your shaking hand. Once you were sure they were fast asleep, you opened the door and stepped into the room. You had to be bad for one time. You needed him to focus on you. You loved your father so much. You couldn’t bear to have him touch and love another whore. 

You slowly stepped toward the bed where the woman, still unclothed, lay. A spark of anger rose in your chest and you lifted the knife, piercing it into her throat with all the strength you had. Her snores were choked by blood, her screams cut off as quickly as they were conjured. You wished to watch her bleed out, but you had to run. Your father had stirred, and you did not want him to catch you killing the whore. So you ran back to your room with the blade, dragging it over your arms to create many small cuts. You drove it into your thigh and allowed it to remain there as you collapsed to the floor. It didn’t hurt. All you could feel was a numbing tingle within your muscles.

It didn’t take long for your father to burst into your room, gasping as he looked down upon you. He rushed to your side, gently pulling the knife from your thigh. His fingers left a burning sensation along your flesh, filling you with warmth. Why was he being so gentle? You wanted him to hurt you, to leave bruises in his wake. His eyes grazed your flesh, those darkened irises glued to your bloody and beaten body. Your father was sober, the alcohol having faded away despite it still lingering on his breath. He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. 

A curse came from his lips. Who could have done this to his child? You didn’t answer. You could never answer, for your voice did not exist. He frowned, pulling you into his chest. You felt numb. You didn’t like this treatment. It was too gentle, too kind, much unlike the aggressive man you knew him to be.

He stood and left your room, returning later with a bandage, gently wrapping it around your thigh. A second kiss was placed to your head as he lifted you into his arms, laying you against your bed and tucking you under your blanket. You watched him walk away, closing your door with a smile. No sleep came, however, leaving you with wide eyes and open ears as you heard your father dragging the body across the house. The back door opened and it was clear that he had taken the whore outside. Despite the strange kindness he held towards you at that moment, you felt glad that the whore was gone. And you were glad that he could focus on you again, ravaging your body and leaving you as a helpless toy.

It changed the very next morning. You were walking from your room, leaning against the wall to keep yourself upright, when he walked through the front door with a scowl. He spit on you as he strode by, a beer can in his hand. Your father was back to his old self. It was still confusing how gentle he had been with you, but you had your father back. He was yours, and you were his. You would be sure to kill any pathetic whore he brought home on his arm. He had to be yours. He had to touch you. 

The dull ache in your thigh felt nice. You deserved to be hurt. Without thinking, you knocked a vase off of a table, watching it shatter against the floor. It didn’t take long for your father to come rushing into the room, slamming you against the wall and shouting obscenities in your face. His fists beat at your face, his nails tearing at your flesh. And you loved it.

You were bleeding heavily when he was finished with you. Your breath came in short gasps, leaving you lightheaded. It was difficult to stay upright, your legs threatening to give way. Your father scoffed, pushing you to the ground and kicking your stomach. His pathetic child, he called you. A waste of life, a waste of oxygen. A disgrace. Every insult he threw caused a warmth to spread within your abdomen, a strange sensation, you had to admit. The feeling was of one you had never felt before. But with each profane word, it grew stronger and stronger, leaving you too-hot and needing more.

As your father walked away, you opened your mouth to beg, wishing for him to stay. Nothing emerged, pure silence filling the room. It echoed along the walls, circling you. Trembles traveled along your flesh as you laid on the floor, unmoving. You didn’t want to get up. You wanted to stay there, allowing the vase’s shards to dig into your skin. Blood seeped from your wounds. Once again, you felt numb. Broken. But so full.

It wasn’t until your father emerged from his room that you managed to get up. He ordered you to have a meal cooked by the time he got home, or he’d kill you. Your father was leaving to find more drinks, to screw another whore. It filled you with rage. 

As soon as he slipped out the front door, you stood, leaning against the wall and making your way to the kitchen. You baked a casserole, with special ingredients for him to hold you inside. Your saliva, your blood. Any fluid that came from you, you mixed into the dish, filling it with your essence. 

When your father returned, he didn’t have a filthy slut on his arm. He walked into the kitchen where you sat, curled up in a chair. It was silent as he stepped in, his body leaning from side to side. Drunk again, as always. He grabbed a plate and splattered food over it, sitting down in front of you and beginning to wolf it down. You watched him do so, feeling the same warmth within you. It spread throughout your body, leaving tingles in its wake. Knowing he was eating your essence… it made you feel wonderful. But you didn’t touch yourself, it was a sin. Only your father could touch you. You were his and his alone.

He looked up at you after finishing, a grimace distorting his features. A lump formed in your throat as he examined you, then scooted his chair back and patted his lap. It was an invitation to sit in his lap. You listened, of course, immediately stumbling to your feet and making your way over. He pulled you onto him, his hands gripping your backside. His lips attacked your neck, leaving rough bites and marks. Your father slid his hands into your clothes, touching your most private parts. It felt nice, spreading delight through your wound-ridden body. 

His touch was gentle, but as the alcohol reached his brain, he became rougher. Your father shoved you to the ground and took you once more. Your body belonged to him. He used you as he wished, and you allowed him to. You wanted him to. It was wonderful, being used by him. He was finally focused on you again. You were his whore, no others.

A thought materialized in your mind. It was quite the devilish thought, but it would be worthwhile. It would ensure that he would be yours. Forever.

*

Your father passed out for a few days. His skin appeared paler. Yellow. You didn’t know why he didn’t wake up. He was still breathing, as shown by his chest rising and falling. You watched him rest for hours and hours. Finally, he began to stir. Rushing away from the room, you slipped into your own, curling up upon your bed. Your scars had healed in the time he had been asleep, save for the deep mark in your thigh. The pain had gone away. You missed his touch, for he had been asleep. Fast asleep. When you were watching him, you had placed his hand upon your cheek, feeling the rough calluses of his fingertips. It was… nice.

When he woke up again, he came into your room, covered in his own vomit. His eyes were sunken in. He looked older than he truly was, with wrinkles showing on his handsome face. You didn’t know why. He seemed different somehow, though you couldn’t tell. Maybe he was just sick, with a little virus going around the home.

He stared at you for many moments, hatred blatant on his face. Many tense heartbeats passed before your father was walking away, having not said a word. You watched as he disappeared into the dimly lit hall, his footsteps echoing. In the kitchen, you heard him stumbling around, working to prepare himself a meal. It wasn’t long before he returned to your room, giving a rugged-voiced order to cook as he showered. You immediately stood, your plan set into place. As he was asleep, you had found a small box of rat poison, hiding it beneath your bed until the time was right. 

You quietly made your way to the kitchen, throwing together a quick meal for your father. Just before you mixed in the rat poison, however, you heard a loud crash in the restroom. Fear formed a lump in your throat and you cautiously approached the door, hearing groaning within. It wasn’t locked. You turned the knob, pushing open the door and hearing it squeak against its hinges. On the floor, your father was laying, his body bent over the side of the bathtub. Blood leaked from his skull, a clear break in the side. His eyes were rolled back, his mouth open as red-tinted drool dripped from it.

Your steps were shaky as you moved closer to your father, lifting his head into your lap and allowing his blood to soak through your clothes. His chest wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing. No, he couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t leave you like this. It wasn’t right. Your plan had failed. He was gone. 

In a split-second decision, you struggled to drag him to his room. Your strength was that of a feather, unable to lift him upon his bed. So you allowed his body to rest on the floor as you curled yourself over him. You were heartbroken, but you didn’t cry. Tears had faded from your eyes long ago. You couldn't shed a single droplet. You laid over him, wrapping his arms around you as his flesh grew cold. He wasn’t supposed to die so early, you were supposed to kill him.

But either way, he was now yours. Forever.

Even as his body rotted, as flies left eggs upon his decaying form, as you began to starve, you laid there. You didn’t move until you felt a growing sensation of need within you, the need to make him one with you. Many hours, many days. The time ticked by as the need spread through you, his rotting scent filling your lungs, causing a warmth to spread through your body. You lifted yourself upon his form, feeling his frozen arms fall from your back and rest around your legs. You straddled him, looking down into maggot-ridden eyes and fetid flesh. Despite his decayed state, you found him handsome. And so you dragged yourself up and down his waist, holding his hands and forcing his nails into your face. The pain felt magnificent. 

It was like you could see him there, feel him there, still alive and well. His withered body still held life within it as you pleasured yourself over him. But he wasn’t close enough. You weren’t one with him. 

Your mind fell into darkness, leaving it brimming with pure nothingness. With each movement you made over our father’s body, you opened your jaws and ripped his rotten flesh, barely chewing before you swallowed. Soon, your hunger was sated. He was inside of you, and as the bacteria worked its magic, leaving your already weakened body to slowly die, you felt glee. Utter joy radiated from your final breaths, curled up with the skeleton of your dear father.

And in a world where nothing truly matters, even parasites will come face to face with death. 


End file.
